MANIFEST DESTINY
by Deborah Vaughn
I did not come to this planet to drive cross-country on its major highways, though I’m a good driver. I am! As long as the road is straight and smooth, the other drivers keep a reasonable distance between us and the weather is good, I can’t be beat. Should any of those elements be altered though, I have to admit I become someone else. Chicken Little best describes it.
You know the person in the car ahead of you who slows down on the expressway, has her emergency blinkers on because it’s raining, and annoys all the traffic behind her trying to keep 500 yards away from the car ahead of her? That’s me. I’m the one other drivers scream “Asshole!” at as they pass. And it’s not just testosterone-laden male drivers. No. I’ve heard the same thing from female drivers, public transportation drivers, the Amish.
During a cross-country pilgrimage back to the state of my birth, all of the components were stacked against me. I’d managed to find the one route the Departments of Transportation across nine states decided must be torn up, detoured around, re-striped or re-shouldered during the 3rd week of July. Everybody crossing those states was either starting on or returning from vacation and each was in a vile mood. And, naturally, it rained.
So a change of course was necessary for the return trek. I’d told two of my relatives (I won’t name them; in fact, I won’t ever say their names again except during a Wiccan ceremony) that I would return by a less direct, but more forgiving route. We even sat at the kitchen table going over the atlas and my intended course together. One said, “That makes sense.” The other, “Yeah, that looks good.” I know they snickered and snorted and high-fived each other as I drove away. I never liked either of them.
I made it through Indiana just fine, and Illinois...mostly. Relaxed and calm, singing along with Elton, I was making good time. Just outside of St. Louis I noticed a sign that read Mississippi River Ahead. River? Oh no! That means...a bridge. There’s no way out. No possible exit. My beautiful two-lane road has morphed into a six-lane death trap, at noon, over a river, on a bloody bridge!
I hate bridges. I'm not a vampire, but my worst nightmares since childhood have involved crossing water. Those panting, sit-you-up-straight-in-bed, guts-on-fire kind of nightmares. And yet, never in those dreams--even as my car is careening off the span, it and me hurtling toward our damp demise, my face the model for Edvard Munch’s The Scream--never once was I driving an overloaded 6-year old Hyundai Elantra, surrounded by semi-truck drivers running late at the very moment the diuretic I’d taken earlier decided to frantically signal its effectiveness!
I had to keep reminding myself that gripping the steering wheel so tight my fingers ache really doesn’t help. Other drivers were honking, cutting me off. This bloody bridge went on forever! I considered honking back, but the horn on this car sounds more like something you’d expect to hear from a tyke’s bike (still with training wheels), so I decided not antagonizing them further was probably the smarter move.
Finally, the river gave way again to dry land, but I was still in St. Louis, a pretty big city. It took 13 minutes to get past all the exits before I-70 became a rational two lanes again. I exited, made it to a Denny’s to try and calm down, but had to sit in the parking lot for just a bit. My sphincter muscles wouldn’t release their crocodile hold on the fabric of my car seat.
Checking the atlas again over a cup of steaming coffee, Missouri didn’t look so bad. If I pushed, I could make it to Kansas before stopping. I was delighted to see it was one highway, no major cities to navigate; looked like it should have been a smooth three or four hours. I soon discovered however, that in Missouri, I-70 was under some kind of construction the whole way. And, of course, it started to rain again. I’m just not good in rain. You know that inspirational saying about how it takes 22 muscles to frown and only seven to smile? Missouri drivers have reduced the effort even further. Many of them showed me it only takes four muscles to raise your middle finger.
My upbringing in the 60’s and youthful addiction to sci-fi movies didn’t help me a bit on this drive. I normally have to do extensive positive-thinking mantras just to get up the nerve to pass a semi-truck, and even then it has to be on a flat, straight, paved road with very little traffic. So, exactly when did that 18-wheel, bi-level, auto transport get in front of me? I consciously tried not to stare at it. I knew it meant me no harm, but the car on the top tier was some kind of foreign sedan and its grill was maliciously grinning at me. Sort of like Jack Nicholson in The Shining--"Here's Johnny!". I couldn’t help but mentally form my escape plan should it break free of those obviously inadequate chain restraints. Just as I’d worked up enough nerve and was about to hit the gas to pull into the pass lane, I swear to you, it winked one of its headlights at me and took an “I dare ya” attitude. I didn’t breathe again until that trucker finally got off the interstate just outside of Independence.
I hit a lovely dry patch about 20 miles out of Kansas City. Traffic was reasonable and even the road conditions seemed to be in my favor. Just the kind of false hope one needs to start thinking this wasn’t so bad and might even have been a “good learning experience”. Jimmy Buffet and I were singing the praises of tequila and deep sea fishing and I figured the worst was all behind me. I was getting better at this, even wryly smiling at the fact that every winged mammal on the planet had used my car for target practice in the previous few hours.
Now why in the world did the road go from four lanes to six? And what was that sign up ahead? Missouri River. What? I’ve got bird shit and bug guts all over my windshield--I knew deep in my bones there wasn’t any washer fluid so I didn’t even attempt it. The low-gas signal went off with a shriek that just about scared the breakfast out of me and I was headed over an even wider, higher bridge--At! Rush! Hour!--just as a thunderstorm decided to unleash its hell of watery fury with a preternatural vengeance!
Another test. Another successful escape with my life. Another search for bathroom facilities. I left the waitress a good tip, since I’d occupied the booth for about 90 minutes and only had coffee. Lots of coffee. But I was revved. I can do this!
Once again I was filled with hope, though now teetering on some kind of sadomasochistic level. Kansas is a beautiful state, 440 miles of wheat fields and corn fields and clear skies; no wonder Dorothy wanted to go back home. I was even used to the truckers by now. We’d passed each other so many times on this trek I’ve given them cute nicknames. I don’t know...maybe they did the same.
By Colorado I decided to bypass Denver and take a direct route south to New Mexico. I was only three states away from my beloved Arizona! A new sense of confidence came over me on I-25, mostly because it is one desolate stretch of road. There was very little traffic and no bad weather so I was free to change lanes at will. About 15 miles from the New Mexico boarder, everything slowed: Road Work Ahead. There were only five or six cars ahead of me, but we came to a complete stop. Now what? I could see the crews in their orange vests, big machinery kicking up dust. What’s going on? Finally, we started moving, ever so slowly and I realized they were letting us go over a bridge. A very tiny, old, wooden bridge. One car at a time. I glanced to my right to read the sign--Purgatoire River.
I no longer fear death. Or damnation.
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